I remember you in chapters and every turn of a page was beautiful, and there was always something to look forward to. Until there wasn’t. And slowly each paragraph made me sick and I started to hate the author, hate myself. I never wanted to admit that I was just starting to hate you. I remember you in actions, the way you used to write my emotions on a notepad and we’d assign colors to every one of them, at all hours of the night. Orange was love, purple always felt like loneliness. And I don’t think I ever told you, but everything was stained purple for months. Purple is my least favorite color now. I remember you in music, with songs that play on the Pandora station (because the radio “is so obsolete”). That week in summer I didn’t listen to music, not even in Spanish. It reminded me too much of the way your tongue would roll when saying my name. Reminded me too much of the CD mixes you used to make me when you were away. Until one summer you stopped. And this doesn’t mean I miss you, or that I love you, or that I even think about you all that much. I don’t. I promise on everything that is holy, you are barely ever a thought in my mind. But first love is a wild fire, like the kind that devastates homes in Southern California. Even when the fire is out, contained, damage practically erased, with new life flourishing from the ashes. No one who lived really forgets those summers. That’s how I remember you.